Somewhat-sophist tales

Things found miraculously

Every now and then, I happen upon things I haven’t lost. 

I’m, of course, not referring to items lost by others  – 

those wouldn’t be found,  

but rather stolen or at most – borrowed. 

With a justified fear that fiction doesn’t liberate, I’ll only speak of those occasions 

 when I’ve found so-called ‚lost’ belongings, which I had deemed irretrievable. 

 So, this will be a tale of how some perceive the world of things and how others see the thing-world.

The first case is when a thought is crafted into a sentence, even a fairly successful one, but without any consideration or attachment to the sentence itself.

As for my thoughts, those fowls of the air, I hold the same sentiment for them as I do for a flock of geese flying in a direction only they know or a group of starlings or sparrows that bravely dive into hedgerows 

and thickets of thorny bushes – for chit-chat, 

 just as they dive into the matted fruit trees – for a snack.

Thus, there are fleeting thoughts, which despite their triviality, are tattooed on the neck of Atlas, and a world without them would once again plunge into darkness;  organized thoughts, filling with their material refinement a plate of feta cheese and olives, and a glass of wine, and serving as a riposte  

and tennis smash for numerous, often unaccounted-for bills and innocently blackmailing offers slipping through the mailbox for bad news.

Unknowingly, we wade through these thoughts like barbers through cut hair in hair salons, which now, to emphasize the role of a provocative fringe or perm in the latest history of humanity, are called studios, workshops, or ateliers. 

Obviously, it might be that this thin irony is due to the fact that there’s no need to use these fine abodes, because – bad luck! – my head is no longer graced with hair.

But it’s just these mythical fowls of thoughts, chirping 

or tweeting. And then they fly away.

Once, I thought I had a heart. 

Over time, it turned out  it wasn’t my heart, and perhaps not even a heart but rather a random collection of cells, somewhere, for example, in the pituitary gland, accidentally responsible for compassion, mostly for self-compassion. 

After three supposed deaths, which were believed to be the final and inevitable end, but never occurred, and wouldn’t have changed anything anyway except for minor inheritance complications, something unexpected happened. I didn’t find a treasure or win the lottery,  but I did discover a lost item, like the Ark of the Covenant. It was similar to when I dozed off after drinking red wine on a sunny bench in Saragossa, and the money, which was not lost but thought to be lost and even suspected to be stolen, was found only near Ljubljana. It had been in a forgotten bag, in a pocket that had been cleverly sewn by hardworking women in the sewing rooms of Bangladesh and had not been earning any interest. 

I fold the lottery ticket back in this now beautiful Slovenian village and find such words there – you haven’t won anything, damn it, you’re not here to spout nonsense while aimlessly wandering across the decaying bridge between utopias. I wonder what these thoughts are; I’m not on a vegan diet, I don’t drink more than usual, and I haven’t joined any sect or order. And suddenly, someone, I’d like to meet them, changed things neatly: don’t seek and you shall find, but nothing happens without the Holy Spirit, 

and I walked on the unfrozen, transparent surface of the lake, and underneath I saw crowds of people wading in the bog of unconsciousness.

Joyful processions of Dionysus or Bacchus passed by, and after them, as usual, ego stepped in. 

So ego reproached me: come off it, thanks to me, you’ve screwed so much pussy, gotten drunk, and overeaten – don’t leave me now… 

Fuck off – I just said as a final farewell.

Unconsciousness is not seeing the difference between Tibetan flags in the Himalayas and shreds of plastic bags scrambling on sad trees or cramming 

into the meanders of noble rivers and streams of garbage – the deformed products of our only miraculous civilization. 

Or like an equal sign   between swallows gossiping on electric wires and laundry clips on lines in neglected gardens. By the way, we give a firm Yes to such gardens. 

After all, life is a constant mystery and wisdom treads quietly and leisurely, 

 so that the rushing foolishness cannot notice it.

I consider the first case explained, so without unnecessary moralizing, I’ll move on to the second. 

The word „conscience” is the most hated word in the world, unless it’s collective as „world conscience” or the so-called „social conscience”. Then, according to prevailing ideas, 

 any  war or crime can be planned and carried out. 

Individual conscience is an unnecessary, repulsive entity and somehow still not banned by world jurisdiction. 

 I have a distinct impression that judges have little more understanding for criminals than for innocent people, possessors of any remnants of conscience. 

The reason seems simple – individuals possessing it are inherently enemies of progress, prosperity, and the development of humanity. The concept of „conscience” is a backward, inhibitory creation, throwing sand into the system’s gears. 

If, God forbid, you attach the adjective „clear” to it, it automatically becomes the enemy of every world, saving or perhaps already saved by its laws. 

Whether it’s because a  clear conscience is a more precious metal than gold and a more valuable mineral than diamonds, or because every rogue subconsciously hates his reflection in the mirror, I don’t know. By the way, thankfully, financial advisors or bankers will never read these tales, because a clear conscience is the best-performing capital.

In short, if speech is silver, silence is golden, and actions are titanium and platinum, then conscience is the most valuable since woven from the anxiety of the heart. Then there’s only the heart, and its fragility is as much a myth as the myth that the heart doesn’t need the world, and the world doesn’t need the heart.